WET NURSE -Flash Fiction

  WET NURSE

If you had lived in another time, say a hundred, even a thousand years ago, somewhere in Britain or even Egypt, and you were not a member of the chosen people, stuck in a race, a system where there was no way to rise out of, you might have found the deprivation of living unbearable. Everything you did, loved, kicked to the ashes. Those who felt superior to you, even the children, would look at you with scorn if they looked at you at all. They would say amongst themselves, is this a human at all? I doubt it.

Georgiana lived such a life, where all was taken from her, but nothing given back, where she sacrificed the good of her children for that of her master, and such a word is that, master, someone taking dominion over her every breath.

Georgiana thought, for once, that providence had smiled upon her as she held her newborn baby in her arms, the new baby suckling at her breasts. All the persecutions, the beatings, and the sacrifices were all worth it to be the mother of the sweet baby. Georgiana didn’t understand why her master let her rest in her bed for two weeks following the miracle, but she relished every second with her baby.

For now, you will no longer work, they told her. Georgiana could scare breath, yet they realize their mistake. Some part of her knew that the moment would pass, that things would change, but she tried not to think of it as her son took loud, pleasurable gulps of Georgiana’s pure milk of life.

But then, Master gave birth, and Junior was brought to Georgiana’s breasts. You will no longer feed your child from your breasts. There must always be an ample supply of milk for Junior. A sentence passed upon Georgiana, almost as damning as being thrown in the dungeon. And from that point on, Georgiana’s son wailed in hunger; his belly used to rich, thick cream, now consigned to drink water with bread soaked in it. Whenever Georgiana could steal a small dribble of pig’s milk, she brought it to her son’s lip. Oh, how her breasts ached for her child, how they swollen and engorged to his cries. But to be caught nursing him would be the instant sale of her son. She knew this, for they threatened her about it daily.

I want to say that things worked out well for Georgiana’s baby, that she was able to stow him away in a basket, send him down the river, and eventually be called to nurse him. But I can’t.

In other times, in other places, life moves slowly and hard, weighing down those forced into slavery. The unfortunates bury their will, their very sense of being human.

So, Mama, if you have the fortune to raise your baby, do so with gratitude and joy. Hold that infant tight as it suckles your breast. Sing them songs and tell your stories, for you have what millions of others have been denied: the privilege and freedom of being their mom.

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Wet Nurse

by Stephanie Daich